Chapter 1 - THE SECRET BENEATH THE BANQUET TABLE
“Whatever happens next, sweetheart, don't tell them we met by accident.”
Vincent Marino's voice was barely audible.
My heart hammered.
“Why?”
His gray eyes held mine.
“Because there's a reason I've been looking for you.”
Before I could ask another question, my mother spoke again.
“Evelyn would be perfect for Vincent.”
The other woman laughed.
“Margaret, darling, I've been saying that for years.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
I stared at him.
“For years?” I mouthed.
He gave me a warning look.
Above us, my mother continued.
“She needs a strong husband. Someone who can handle her independence.”
I nearly choked.
Handle my independence?
I was thirty years old.
I owned a successful interior design firm.
I paid my own mortgage.
And apparently, my mother believed I was a badly behaved horse requiring an experienced rider.
Vincent leaned closer.
“Don't laugh.”
I whispered, “I'm considering murder.”
His mouth twitched.
“Get in line.”
Then his mother's voice changed.
“Margaret, there's something you should know.”
Silence.
My mother answered cautiously.
“What?”
The woman hesitated.
“Vincent found the old photograph.”
Beside me, Vincent went completely still.
My mother whispered:
“Which photograph?”
“The one from 1998.”
My stomach tightened.
Vincent's hand closed around mine.
Not playfully this time.
Urgently.
His mother continued.
“The photograph of Thomas Hartwell standing beside my husband.”
My breath caught.
Thomas Hartwell.
My father.
Dead for twenty-two years.
My mother spoke sharply.
“That photograph should have been destroyed.”
Vincent turned toward me.
His expression was grim.
Then his mother said something that made the entire room seem to tilt.
“Margaret, Vincent believes Thomas didn't die in an accident.”
My blood turned cold.
I looked at Vincent.
He didn't look away.
For twenty-two years, I'd believed my father had died when his car went off a bridge during a winter storm.
My mother had told me the roads were icy.
The police had called it an accident.
There had been a funeral.
A closed coffin.
And years of grief.
Now two women were standing above me discussing the possibility that everything I'd been told was a lie.
I started to move.
Vincent caught my wrist.
“Wait.”
I glared at him.
“That's my father.”
His expression softened.
“I know.”
Above us, my mother whispered:
“If Evelyn discovers the truth, she'll never forgive me.”
Something inside me snapped.
I pushed the tablecloth aside.
Stood.
And looked directly at my mother.
“Then perhaps,” I said, my voice shaking, “you should have told me the truth twenty-two years ago.”
My mother screamed.
Vincent's mother gasped.
And behind me, the most feared mafia boss in Chicago slowly crawled out from beneath a banquet table holding the remains of a chicken sandwich.
For one ridiculous moment, nobody spoke.
Then Vincent brushed crumbs from his shirt.
Looked at both women.
And said:
“Before anyone starts yelling, I'd like to point out that Evelyn found me.”
I turned toward him.
“Vincent.”
He looked at me.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Stop talking.”
He nodded.
“Fair.”
My mother stared at me.
Then at Vincent.
Then at our joined hands.
Her expression changed.
“Oh, my God.”
I frowned.
“What?”
She covered her mouth.
“You two have already met.”
Vincent sighed.
“Yes, Mother.”
His mother looked delighted.
My mother looked horrified.
And I looked between them, wondering whether everyone in the room had lost their minds.
Then Vincent's mother whispered:
“Margaret, perhaps we should tell them about the agreement.”
Vincent went still.
I stared.
“What agreement?”
May you like
My mother closed her eyes.
And I knew, before she answered, that my life was about to change.
